Nights
by Mountain Avens
Summary: All Nordics. "There was comfort in that the darkness would admit what they could not."


Iceland never quite understood the tradition, and he couldn't recall when it had come about, but it had become as much a part of him as anything Icelandic ever had been.

It would start every autumn, when the trees were more bare than not, when the excitement of fall turned to the grumbling of the oncoming cold and shorter days. When the clouds covered the sky for the few hours it was light, and darkness bled into the morning and the afternoon.

It would start when Sweden would sit at his kitchen table, one hand wrapped around a warm mug of coffee, staring through his glasses at the newspaper by his light box, eyes still blurring as he stared at the words marching across the page. He would be squinting just a little bit, his vision hazed by the bright light, bags under his eyes. His fingers would be dry and his knees achy—perhaps the cold, perhaps his age, perhaps the Stockholm Bloodbath never really left him alone, even after all this time. He would run his fingers anxiously through his hair, and something would knot itself in his throat at press against his windpipe, only worsening as he thought about it.

He would pick up the phone to invite Finland over. "Just for some coffee," he would say. Finland would deny it, stuttering out something about not wanting to bother Sweden, or anything, his house was small and in the city, but what about the country house in Götburg? He would gush about the espresso there, and what if he stayed a couple days, since it was on the other side of the country from him and all? All Sweden could do would be to nod, forgetting that Finland couldn't see him over the phone; an old habit from years past. Finland would stutter a fearful apology, his voice threatening to jump octaves, and Sweden would insist in forceful, yet minced words that he would pick him up at the airport, and Finland couldn't bring himself to argue.

Finland would usher Sealand back to England, insisting that the boy go see his guardian for the coming season. The boy knew where Finland was going without the word being said; whenever Finland talked of leaving without saying where, it always meant he was going to Sweden's. Sealand would tell Denmark this with a peevish grin on his face, as if he was in on the secret. In fact, he was the only one of them who wasn't.

Denmark would ask Finland at the next Nordic Council meeting, how long he thought Götburg was from Copenhagen. It wasn't far. He could stop for a beer or two. He could bring Norway along. Norway would look after him; always did, always will. They would both agree Denmark can visit when Norway came; Denmark for old time's sake, Finland because Norway had promised him a metal album that he had yet to receive. It was settled. The album had gone out of stores decades ago.

Finland would call the Norwegian to ask him, but he would already be at Iceland's house.

Iceland had the northernmost capital of the world, and his very name cast the image of an island of perpetual winter. He also was the youngest of the Nordic nations, and the least well able to deal with the drastic change of season. Or, so he fooled himself into thinking.

He knew how silly it was, how silly it was that a country older than America had problems with the change of seasons, of all things! He could live through volcanic eruptions, famine, poverty, but was bothered this much by a mundane change of season. He would lock himself in his room, lighting all the candles he'd bought from various school and church fundraisers over the years, ordering take-out to survive on in his one-room existence.

Norway would knock on his door three times punctuated by pauses before he would take out the extra key and let himself in. He'd quietly knock outside the door and sigh until Iceland felt guilty enough to open it.

Norway would make him soup and sweet Norwegian rice porridge, tempt him out of his small, stuffy, messy bedroom, and would try to tell him about Sweden and the lamp he used. It would hit a nerve, that Norway would even suggest Iceland need a new-fangled lamp to change his behavior—which wasn't a sign of a disorder or a disease, this is how I'm like all the time, and you're just going to have to live! He would retort in a temper—and not realize Norway meant to help, to show him the rest of them didn't deal perfectly with things either.

Unfazed, Norway would drop comments blandly on how old-fashioned he was for such a young kid, still thinking in that sort of medieval fashion. Iceland would assume he meant his ð's and þ's, and would then falter and speak to him only in English.

Norway would suggest to Iceland that they take up Finland's offer, inviting him to Götland for a trip. Just to return something he'd been meaning to. It's near the western border, near Tønsburg, and it'd do you good to get some sunlight while you can, he would say. Besides, I can't leave you alone.

Iceland would grumble and go along, because it'd be better not to make Finland wait, for whatever Norway had to return. Norway would forget the record time and time again, but Iceland would always wake up to find Norway had remembered to pack for him, and scheduled a red-eye flight to Sweden to boot.

And every year he would get on the plane and complain about the seats, about the engine noise, about how planes gave him headaches and he felt awful about planes in general, plus, remember March? Norway would put his arm around him and rub circles in his back, nodding in all the right places. He found that Iceland would easily fall back into the habit of following him, almost glued to his side—like a nestling bird—as they walked the airport terminals. Like when he still had that colonial innocence and childish happiness that had disappeared when Norway left him with Denmark. He hadn't been the same since. Norway cherished every recognizable sliver of it he found.

When they arrived, Iceland would blearily grumble that Norway didn't tell him Denmark was going to be there too. Denmark would act like he hadn't seen everyone in ages when they all finally arrived in the tiny vacation house.

And they were all there, in Götburg, all for different but equally petty reasons. Clothes rumpled, eyes tired from travelling, tensions that could be cut with a steak knife. The lamplight would shine golden against the darkness, stern faces, glaring eyes, tensed shoulders, relationships and grudges that were never quite resolved since the last time they all officially shared a house. Every year, the same.

Iceland's eyebrows would constantly be furrowed from glaring at Denmark, all the things he'd never forgive his oblivious ex-guardian for doing or saying in the last two hundred years bubbling to the surface and becoming raw again in his mind. The time he took away his Alþingi, single-handedly fell the island nation into poverty, the time he was invaded and stopped talking to Iceland; the one time Iceland actually needed him to talk to. At the end of the day, when everyone said their goodnights, Iceland would sit cross-legged on the small, double bed he shared with Norway, massaging circles onto his forehead as Norway reorganized the top of the dresser, the shelf above the bathroom sink.

Norway would escape the tension during the day by busying himself with menial chores. Iceland would join him. Norway would have let soup stick to the bottom of the pan because he was busy unpacking, would cook things without oiling the pans because Sweden never had any in the house. He'd give them to Iceland, who would scrub at them, venting and voicing his frustrations. Norway would listen sympathetically and knit his eyebrows together as he dried the dishes and put them away neatly.

Norway would be the most composed of the five of them in the house. Yet he would only speak in cold snippets to Sweden, refusing to stay in the same room with him longer than absolutely necessary. He would avert his eyes and give the man a wide berth. He would snipe at Denmark, more loudly and profanely than he usually allowed himself to be. Finland would hear from across the house two screaming voices in languages he only vaguely understood, each shout twice as loud as the one before. Hanatamago would whine and cower under a chair. It ended almost as soon as it started, with a snarl of disgust and Norway leaving the room, Denmark feeling as though it would have been better if he'd been kicked.

Denmark dealt better with being kicked than with being laid blame. He and Sweden would stop in the hallways, exchanging conversations in glares, barely lit by the lights in the connecting rooms, hardly breaking until someone needed to walk by the hall, and the two passed warily as Norway or Iceland or Finland said "Excuse me," and elbowed past, eyes fixed on the floor. He was certainly angry, but when he wasn't, he was anxious. He'd never admit it, but wouldn't be able to stand watching his family stand next to one another and be further apart than when they were behind their country lines, it wasn't right. He would constantly hang around Norway, or Iceland, asking about anything and everything with a fake grin. His laughs when he was pushed away would be short hollow. Norway would notice the tone and his expression would change, subtly, but no one knew what it meant. Iceland would notice it and ignore it. Finland was too afraid of starting a fight to do anything about it.

Sweden would ask Finland if he would prefer rooming with him or Denmark. Finland would reply that he'd sleep out on the couch if the fact that there weren't enough rooms was going to be an issue, but Sweden would never allow him to, and so without ever agreeing to, they shared a room. Denmark, the former king of the north, would sleep alone. Alone was not a word Denmark could easily accept.

Sweden would escape the Dane by insisting they build the first fire of the season, pulling on his boots and jacket and taking Hanatamago with him as he went out to carry in an armful of large logs from the woodpile, and Finland would follow him, carrying the smaller sticks and picking up bits of kindling from the edge of the forest, all while keeping the dog from straying too far away. They would come back inside, cheeks and noses pink and their hands white from the cold. Their noses would begin to run as they crumpled up newspaper and Sweden bent over, rearranging logs, kindling and newspaper inside the cramped wood stove, and when he was finished, Finland would click the lighter repeatedly and light the newspaper, and then they would sit back on the couch. They would sit near each other nervously on the old Ikea couch, watching through the ash-blurry glass door as the spots of fire would spread until the entire door was lit up. Sweden would insist the door be cleaned for the next fire.

After he was finished, Iceland would take the lighter from Finland and light the candles on the mantle almost as an afterthought. A row of mix-and-matched candles of different heights and sizes, they looked like living set of Christmas lights when he was done, and the shadows crisscrossed like an array of orange-and-black venn diagrams on the walls, accompanied by the crackle and flicker of the fire.

Iceland would also sit on the couch where Sweden was reading a book, where Finland was knitting, where Denmark was flipping through the latest catalogue for IKEA out of boredom and dog-earing the pages with good—Danish—designs. Norway would squeeze in-between Sweden and Denmark, and close his eyes peacefully. The couch was too small for all five of them, and they were all pressed waist to waist, elbow to sweater-padded elbow in the dark room. The crackling, snapping sounds of the fire and the quiet sputters of the candles would become overbearingly loud as the sun set completely in minutes.

When it got too dark to knit or read by firelight, Finland would lay his head on Sweden's shoulder, as if he were afraid to break it, or perhaps afraid to break something. Hanatamago would jump into Finland's lap, making him flinch in surprise. He would settle down with the puppy in his lap, and Sweden would put his hand gently around the Finn's shaking, clammy hand. It would become calm.

Gradually, the flickering lights would make Iceland tired. He would start to droop from his stiff, defensive posture and lean on Denmark's shoulder. In the darkness, Denmark couldn't see and didn't care to see how Iceland refused to look at him. He only felt his ex-colony relaxing, heavier and heavier against his side until he was finally asleep, face peaceful like he used to be. Denmark would put an arm around him and hold him close while he could.

Norway looked over fondly at Iceland from Denmark's other side, his eyes and face oddly expressive, reflecting the low light. He would press a gentle kiss to Denmark's jaw, and Denmark would return it with a kiss on the lips, reaching over and squeezing the small, soft hand that used to wear a silver ring. He knew that it would never be there again. He knew that Norway would never bring any albums and always burn their dinners. They were never decided on, but there was comfort in that the darkness would admit what they could not. Somehow, the darkness which could bring back all their problems, could solve them as well.

It had to be the biggest collection of lies Iceland knew. He didn't mind.


End file.
